We reunited with his sister and cousins and we went with them to wait in line for the greased up carnival snacks: frozen lemonade and pigs in a blanket. I stood off to the side and noticed that the wall behind me wasn’t a wall at all. I was standing in front of the cross section of something ancient. Reading the labels of some of the rings, I found myself almost frozen to what I witnessed. To this day, there is only one way to describe it.

“I’m standing before a god,” I said internally.

The age of this being was unfathomable. It predated ancient battles. This tree saw everything. I imagined the things it had seen and the things it had known. That is until it was cut down by loggers in the 50s. Reading that short line on the plaque, shortly followed by a brief explanation that most of the tree rotted and went to waste. Loggers only use the bottom half of the tree, and leave the rest.

My awe was shortly replaced by disgust. How could anyone in their right mind place something so ancient and sacred in between a shed and a hot dog stand? I didn’t have much time to think about it, or anyone to really rant to, as we had to leave (and I didn’t want to show too much of myself in front of my partner’s family whom I’d only met a few brief times). We carried on, but my mind still quietly lingered on this ancient god.

I moved on with my life, still sometimes reflecting on both what I had seen and my strong reaction to it, but mostly I’d forgotten. It was about a month later when my friend and I pulled into Kettleman City, the strangely western themed rest stop, known by Southern Californians who take “the 5” up to their universities. As we collected our travel snacks of pretentious gluten free crackers, dried apples, and some cubed cheese, I explored the back of the store and behold was another “wall”. Again I stood before a god; this one whose rings predated the birth of Jesus. This tree also met its end by loggers in the 50s.

Why did I keep running into these ancient slabs among greasy foods and random knick-knacks? Surely they deserved some more reverent scenery. But where should they be? If it was in a museum it would be in a cold sterile room among the other stolen bones and sacred artifacts, separated from nature. They almost seem to belong somewhere holy, but by placing them in religious spaces they would be inaccessible and exclusive to people who are secular or belong to other religions.

When imagining where these trees belong, I realize this place could never exist. It wouldn’t be profitable to recognize and celebrate nature as something autonomous and existing outside of commodification. So these pieces sit as just slabs, next to cheap items with price tags, surrounded by flashy signs and advertisements, easily missed.

The title of this newsletter was inspired by a poem I read from a creative writing course, Trilliums by Mary Oliver. The following lines resonated deeply with my childhood:

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Every spring 

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     among

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           the ambiguities 

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                of childhood 

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the hillsides grew white 

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     with the wild trilliums. 

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          I believed in the world. 

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              Oh, I wanted 

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to be easy 

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    in the peopled kingdoms,

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         to take my place there, 

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              but there was none

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that I could find 

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     shaped like me.

It reminded me of the home I found in the branches, under the rocks, and by the creek. I found comfort in them, my most authentic self went unjudged.

My roots are being the weird girl. As a toddler, I freaked out my parents by predicting the death of my grandfather and then speaking with him through a large garden pot after he passed. I caught flies in my house and put them into those mesh toy cages. I played with dolls for years longer than normal, hiding them in my closet like my other secrets.

When analyzing this poem in class I reflected on how the narrator was probably the weird girl too, lost in her own world and make-believe kingdoms. It was comforting to read Oliver’s words, as if she also was in this little imaginary club I have.

Of course, my queerness and being in my own little world all the time brought on the same cruelty all other weird little kids have all endured, both from adults and kids alike.

I aged vengefully.

If you know me personally, you’re probably thinking, “That explains a lot”. And if you don’t know me, you probably understand the background to the theme here. I’ve reclaimed the strange realities I created as well as the “fucking bitch” identity from my vengeful teenage years. Call it spiritual healing.

These writings will include both the issues I passionately and publicly talk about as well as the stranger takes that never come up much. Kinda like the things that you only talk about late at night. Welcome to the weird girl club sleepover!

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